


The Naughty List

by MysticKitten42



Series: Winter [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anthony Goldstein is a dick, Auror Harry Potter, Christmas, Early Bird 25 Days of Harry and Draco 2020, M/M, Model Draco Malfoy, Pining Harry Potter, Sexual Fantasy, Sexy Underwear, art class, inconvenient erections, santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:47:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28386474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysticKitten42/pseuds/MysticKitten42
Summary: In which Hermione takes Harry to an art class and the model is familiar, blond, and pointy.Malfoy steps up onto the round platform and casually lets his robe slip to the ground. As he adopts a pose, Harry’s jaw drops. Draco Malfoy is a work of art.“Close your mouth, Harry,” Hermione whispers, and Harry does.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Winter [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2054841
Comments: 8
Kudos: 174
Collections: 25 Days of Draco and Harry 2020





	The Naughty List

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peachpety](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachpety/gifts).



> Peach, thanks for being a friend. You’re such a sweetheart and I enjoy your positive energy. I’ve wanted to write something for you for a while now. I hope you like it xoxo 😉 
> 
> Prompts:  
> 1 - 25 Days of Draco and Harry 2020 Early Bird Prompt K: Santa Claus  
> 2 - “Is it just me or is Santa extra hot this year?”
> 
> Thanks to PhenominalAsterisk for the beta 😊

Harry’s not completely sure what he’s doing now that he’s seated at the small, rectangular school desk. He should be working overtime, searching for leads on his cold cases. Or perhaps attacking the mountain of paperwork piled up on his desk at work. It’s not that he’d rather be doing paperwork on the weekend, it’s just that one more inter-departmental memo or form (to be filled out in triplicate) and he risks death by bureaucratic avalanche, which would be both unfortunate and rather anticlimactic given everything else he’s survived. Instead, at 11 am on a Saturday, he’s sitting inside a Muggle community centre.

Hermione’s been at him for months to join her. “Harry, you’re always so worked up,” she’d said. “You need balance in your life. It’s time to slow down and nurture your creative side.” Reluctantly, Harry allowed her to sign them both up for a figure drawing class. Hermione looked smug, triumphant even, but Harry decided it was worth it if it earned him a month or two free from nagging. Conveniently Ron had to work (Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes were always flat out during the holidays) and didn’t get roped in as well.

Hermione gives him a warm, reassuring smile. She already has her pencils all lined up in order from 2H to 8B along with her eraser and smudger. Harry smiles in return and sharpens his pencil. He just has the one, and that’s only because Hermione reminded him to bring one. 

He looks around as the other students file in. The desks have been artfully arranged in concentric rows surrounding a raised platform, and sunlight streams in through large windows bathing them in light. While Hermione would have preferred to sit front and center, they’ve elected to sit halfway back, partially because Harry doesn’t want to be _that person_ eagerly sitting too close, and also because the only other wizard in the mostly Muggle class is that tosser, Anthony Goldstein, who’s chosen a front-row seat. 

When the model arrives, wearing a red velvet Santa-inspired robe, everyone looks up. He’s pale, lithe, and utterly familiar. But it can’t be. Draco Malfoy is a Curse-Breaker, not a model for a Muggle art class. Harry glances to his right and Hermione looks far too pleased with herself for this to be a coincidence. Harry suspects this little ruse has less to do with Harry achieving balance in his life and more to do with his not-so-secret crush on a certain pointy, blond git.

Harry looks at Hermione. “You planned this.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she replies innocently and busies herself adjusting her tidy row of pencils.

Harry takes a deep breath and stares at Malfoy, hating himself (just a little bit) for his puppy-dog crush that inconveniently won’t go away no matter how hard he tries. He knows full well that nothing will ever come from his _feelings_. The few times they’ve worked together, Malfoy’s made it clear he can barely stand to be in Harry’s presence: he avoids eye contact, keeps his words clipped and to the point, and he always leaves the moment their work is done. So Harry does his best to keep his pesky feelings to himself. 

Malfoy steps up onto the round platform and casually lets his robe slip to the ground. He adopts a pose, and Harry’s jaw drops. Draco Malfoy is a work of art.

“Close your mouth, Harry,” Hermione whispers, and Harry does.

Malfoy is stunning. Statuesque. He should be on display, in a gallery or a museum, where the masses can congregate and pay homage to his sculpted form. Harry lets his eyes wander over every inch of perfect, alabaster skin. Malfoy’s outfit, if you can call it that, leaves little to the imagination. He’s wearing the most delectable pair of Santa underwear. The black elastic, edged with tufts of white faux fur, has a shiny gold buckle in the center; the fabric, red velvet, is so tiny it barely covers him. Harry’s eyes trace the obvious outline of Malfoy’s cock; soft, but definitely there, and most impressive.

“My, my, is it just me or does Santa look extra hot this year?” Goldstein says loudly and whistles, earning him a glare from Hermione.

He must have heard, Goldstein is sitting right in front, but Malfoy’s face remains unaffected. Frozen. Bored. As much as it pains him to agree with anything Goldstein has to say, Harry finds he does. Very much so. He wonders if he’ll be able to look Malfoy in the eye the next time they work together; he knows his mind will always return to this class, to the blazing red Santa outfit. He’s not sure whether Hermione ought to be thanked or killed. 

As much as it pains him to do so, Harry takes a slow, steadying breath and pulls his gaze upward, away from the tantalising red velvet pants, and focuses on Malfoy’s face. He studies his patrician features: intense grey eyes, straight aristocratic nose, high cheekbones, luscious lips with a perfect cupid’s bow and a plump lower lip that begs to be sucked. Of course, Harry’s looked before, but never for as long as he’s liked for fear of being caught staring. But now he has the perfect excuse; it’s what he’s here to do. He begins his sketch. He’s never done this before, but, like a true Gryffindor, he dives right in. Hermione is already way ahead.

Harry’s just finished Malfoy’s face, his eyes moving of their own accord downward, tracing the delectable line where tendon meets clavicle. Harry has the urge to bite, to mar that perfect porcelain skin and leave his mark. Malfoy’s chest is chiselled to perfection; Bill ensures that his Curse-Breakers are in peak physical condition and Malfoy clearly has not skimped on training. A series of silver-white lines crosscut Malfoy’s chest, marks Harry left years ago, and he stares at them with a fascination formed from equal parts guilt and arousal. He wonders what it would feel like to run his fingers along each sinuous line, followed by his tongue. He draws them instead.

Soon, Harry finds himself captivated by Malfoy’s nipples, so pink and delicious, and he wants to nip at them, flick them with his tongue. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, his jeans suddenly too tight.

Harry looks over and sees that Hermione is already halfway through her drawing, and it looks so incredibly realistic that it could be a photograph. Maybe he can ask her to give it to him later… so he can study it… for technique purposes. He bites his lip and resolves to focus. 

Except it’s difficult. Malfoy’s nipples. Were they always so pebbled? So hard? They must have been. Harry realizes the room is a little drafty. Malfoy must be cold, and that’s why his nipples are hard. Discreetly, Harry sends a wandless Warming Charm in his direction.

Harry needs to calm down, to do something to counteract his arousal. He purposely looks at Malfoy’s left arm with the Dark Mark prominently on display. The Muggles probably think it’s a cool biker tatt, not the brand that it really is. Malfoy has it glamoured so a wreath of holly surrounds the skull and snake. How very festive. Malfoy’s part in the war still nags at Harry’s conscience, but not enough to interfere with his desire.

“Hey Santa,” Goldstein calls out. “Show us your package.”

Harry’s pencil snaps. The man seriously has no shame. He works in accounting yet finds any excuse to be in the Auror department whenever they call in the Curse-Breakers, fawning and falling all over Malfoy. It makes Harry sick. Hermione passes Harry a replacement pencil and loudly tells Goldstein he has no class. But the incident has not affected Malfoy, who remains poised in his pose. Graceful. Gorgeous. 

The door bursts open and a middle-aged woman, with wild hair that contrasts with her tidy peacoat, comes bursting through. “So sorry I’m late,” she exclaims. “I’m glad you’ve started without me.” She smiles at Malfoy, “Drake, always a pleasure,” then looks around the room. “I see some fresh faces and some familiar ones.” She nods at Hermione. “Everyone, be sure to get up and look at Drake from all angles. It will help with your final product.” She drops her coat onto her chair and heads for the door. “I’ll be right back, just need to photocopy the handouts.”

Goldstein’s already on his feet, but Harry needs a moment. He’d rather wait for the obvious bulge in his jeans to deflate. He pictures Aunt Marge dressed in Santa panties coordinated with red, tasselled pasties. There. That does the trick. Harry stands slowly and wraps his sweater (bright red and green, patterned with trolls clubbing each other with giant candy canes) around his waist, so the sleeves hang down and obscure his crotch, just in case. Hermione raises an eyebrow but says nothing.

Harry slowly walks around to the back of the platform, only to be confronted with a fact he’s already suspected: Malfoy’s just as attractive from behind. His pert arse, bisected by the tiniest hint of red velvet attached to the elastic belt, is the most delectable thing Harry has ever seen. Harry wants to grab those perfect globes, part them, lick between them, make Malfoy whine. He’s snapped out of his reverie by Goldstein.

“Hey Santa, I’ve been a good boy. Can I sit on your lap?”

Harry snaps. What he wouldn’t give to hex Goldstein, cover him in boils, perhaps a severe case of Scrotal Pox. But in a room full of Muggles, he can’t risk it. Instead, he grabs Goldstein by the t-shirt and pushes him back against his desk, perhaps a little more forcefully than necessary. “That’s enough,” Harry fumes. “Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you. Permanently.” Goldstein looks terrified, and, of course, that’s exactly when the teacher walks in.

“What is this? You” — she points at Harry —“that’s unacceptable behaviour in my class.”

“Actually,” Hermione interjects, “Harry was defending Drake. Anthony has been verbally harassing him all class.”

“Again?” The teacher says. “I’ve warned you about this before, Mr Goldstein. I’m afraid you must leave.”

“But–”

“No buts. Out. Now.” She points to the door and, with his shoulders slumped, Goldstein gathers his things and leaves. He scowls at Harry as he goes. Good riddance.

Harry and Hermione make their way back to their seats. Malfoy hasn’t moved an inch, but Harry thinks he sees a slight smirk on his face. He must have imagined it though because when he looks again, it’s gone. 

Harry continues to sketch and shade Malfoy’s hipbones, wishing he could touch, dip his thumbs in and trace the indentation. He wants to suck on Malfoy’s fingers, one at a time, while he looks him in the eye. He wonders what it would feel like to run his hand over the red velvet, to trace the hard lines beneath. Surely Malfoy didn’t have a semi earlier? Harry would have noticed. He’s certain he would have done. Unless he’s been too distracted by his…everything else. 

Harry wants to drop to his knees and remove those sexy Santa pants with his teeth, let them fall to the floor while he grabs Malfoy’s cock and licks a firm stripe from base to tip. He wants to swirl his tongue around the head, taste Malfoy’s precome, grip his thighs so hard he’ll leave marks, swallow him down, let him fuck his mouth until his eyes water and saliva drips down his chin.

But that’s not all he wants. He’d bring Malfoy to the edge, but he wouldn’t let him fall over. Instead, he’d pop off and Malfoy would groan, sharp silver eyes glaring in annoyance. But then Harry would lean over the desk, offering himself up. He’d whisper the preparation spells and Malfoy would slip in a finger, just one at first, and then two. He’d make Harry beg for it. Three fingers. Harry would cry out as Malfoy grazed his prostate, and cruelly, just at that moment, remove them. But Harry wouldn’t stay empty for long. Malfoy would line himself up, teasing Harry until he pants, _Please_ , and then he’d push inside in one long, slow, deliberate motion, only pausing when balls-deep. Harry would suck in his breath while he adjusts to the stretch and fullness. Then, just when Harry can’t take it anymore and is about to cry out for more, Malfoy would pull out, almost all the way, and thrust forward. He’d establish a rhythm, building towards a crescendo, and the sound of skin slapping against skin would echo throughout the room. 

“Harry!” Hermione’s hiss snaps him out of his fantasy, and he finds himself staring into piercing grey eyes. He quickly glances down at his page while she chides, “Class ends in ten minutes and you’ve drawn nothing in the last five. Focus. Your drawing needs legs.”

She’s right. Harry does his best not to fixate on Malfoy’s gorgeous, perfectly sculpted thighs as he hurries to finish his sketch. 

The teacher makes her way around the room, passing out the handouts and offering praise and helpful hints to each student. She lavishes compliments on Hermione for her spot-on sense of proportion and realism. She praises Harry too, says his drawing shows a Picasso influence. Harry knows enough about art to know it’s not a compliment. 

The teacher announces the end of class. As Malfoy pulls on his Santa robe, he fixes Harry with an intense gaze that makes him feel like he’s the one that’s nearly naked.

Hermione packs up quickly, but Harry remains seated. He needs another moment. She smiles knowingly and says she’ll meet him outside. One-by-one the students exit the classroom and Malfoy hands each a candy cane as they leave. Harry thinks of Voldemort in a pink vinyl corset. A short while later, he’s able to adjust himself and stand. With his drawing and pencil in hand, he heads for the door. He hopes, being the last one out, that Malfoy might already have left and he won’t have to look him in the eye on the way out. But no such luck.

Malfoy stands in the doorway, perfectly still, candy cane in hand. But he doesn’t give it to Harry, he stares at him instead.

“Do I get one of those?” Harry asks.

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. “Candy canes are for good little boys and girls.”

“I’ve been good.”

Malfoy smirks. “Oh, Potter. You most certainly have not been good.”

Harry’s skin feels all tingly, his stomach flutters, but he stands tall. “Hey, I stood up for you. I sent that Warming Charm your way too. That was good, wasn’t it?”

Malfoy leans in and a shiver travels down Harry’s spine as he whispers into Harry’s ear. “I wasn’t cold, I was preoccupied. You made it exceedingly difficult to focus. I rarely resort to Legilimency, but you were broadcasting your thoughts so loudly I couldn’t help myself. I’ll have you know, every single one of your thoughts, all those things you wanted to do, were positively filthy. You most definitely are on Santa’s Naughty List.”

Harry feels the colour rising to his cheeks. The room suddenly feels too hot and a bead of sweat rolls down his back. _Malfoy knows._ He’s never going to live this down. He’ll have to change jobs. _The Prophet_ will love this. Shame washes over him, but he swallows and boldly looks at Malfoy. “What happens when you’re on Santa’s Naughty List?”

Slowly, Malfoy looks him up and down. His eyes rest on Harry’s lips. _Oh._ Perhaps this isn’t as one-sided as Harry thought. 

Malfoy leans back in and slips a piece of paper into Harry’s hand. “You get invited back to mine for drinks. Come to this address at eight o’clock tonight. Don’t be late, Potter.” He pulls back, his silver eyes darkened to gunmetal grey. “You’re already on the Naughty List, I’d hate to have to punish you further.”

As Harry watches him leave, he’s left with a lingering visual — undoubtedly planted by Malfoy — of himself bent across strong, pale legs with bright red handprints on his arse. He smirks and resolves to be at least twenty minutes late.

**Author's Note:**

> The tumblr post for this fic (with prompt pictures, including inspo for Draco’s santa pants) is [here](https://mystickitten42.tumblr.com/post/638768895042453504/the-naughty-list) 🎅🏻


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